


A Woman Scorned

by AWomanOfLetters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Backstory, Hate, Historical, Love, Minor Canonical Character(s), Revenge, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:23:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWomanOfLetters/pseuds/AWomanOfLetters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a small, pretty, naive village girl, Rowena was used, then cast aside.  She learned to use anger and hatred and witchery to make her way through the world.  Now Lucifer needs her help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She was breathless by the time she reached their usual meeting spot. She was afraid, too. How could she tell him? What would he say, do? He had a wife. Oh, she had known that from the very start, but his vivid blue eyes, the sharp planes of his face - they froze her like an enchantment the first time she had seen him. It had been uncanny. And when he had spoken to her, smiled at her, as if she were the only woman alive - how could any woman resist that?

And now here she was. Ruined, for sure, unless he took care of her.

Surely he would? After everything they had said to each other, promised each other, between wild, sweet kisses; walking through the trees under the night sky; on hot, lazy afternoons in the meadows beyond the edge of town. Surely everything would be all right.

Surely.

Father...he would kill her. Or disown her.

She waited.

He came later than usual. He cantered up on his roan horse, slid off, tethered the horse, and swept her up into his arms, spinning her around. "Ro...Ro, Ro, Ro, my armful of delight! And how are you today, sweetness?" He bent down to kiss her, and she quivered with delight, her lips opening beneath his. This was what she lived for, these stolen moments. But right now...she sighed and pushed him back a bit. He lifted an amused eyebrow.

"So serious, Ro!" he chuckled, putting a finger under her chin and tilting her head up. She took a careful step back, folded her hands in front of her, twisting the fingers awkwardly together, looked at the ground.

"I have news, Roderick." She glanced up at him, bit her lip. He waited, still amused.

"I am...with child..." Her voice faltered as she spoke. She looked back down at the ground.

He didn't say a thing. The silence grew, became a wall. She darted a quick look at him, and flinched. His smile had shifted, become stiff and uncomfortable. She shivered, wrapped her arms around herself.

"Girl. How did that happen? I thought you village chits knew ways to avoid it?" She shook her head quickly, wordlessly, still focused on the ground, her long red hair blowing in the breeze. What? Did he think the village girls were magic of some sort, to stop nature?! Well, some might be, but she wasn't - she was just the tanner's daughter.

"Well." He was abrupt. "You'll have to do something about it."

She paled, looked up into his eyes, locked on. "What...?"

He snorted. "I certainly can't have my wife hearing about this. You'll have to go away, leave town. Maybe when you get back, we can see each other again. But it's probably not a good idea." He turned back to his horse.

She reached out, clutched his arm before he could mount. "Roderick! I canna do this alone! 'Tis your bairn!" She closed her eyes. "Please," she whispered. His hands - the same ones that had stroked her back, tangled in her hair, held her against him in the moonlight - peeled hers away.

"And why should I believe that?" He asked, a note of light scorn in his voice. "You were quite willing to lay with me, eager, even. Why should I think I was your first?" Her head jerked back as if she had been slapped. A spark of anger flared. "Go back to your village boys, see if one of them will wed you - "

The spark flared into fury. She tossed her head, sending her hair dancing. "Och! So that's it? Take me into your arms, whisper sweet words and promises, bed me, then, when I come to you for help, when your very own bairn is growin' in my belly, turn me away? What kind of man are you?!" she shouted.

He got up on his horse and looked at her dispassionately. "Well, pretty little Ro, I'll tell you one kind of man I am not: I am not going to be saddled with you and your child. Come, Ro - " His voice turned rueful. "One of those village lads is the best thing for you. These things happen, lass. You were a nice little spring and summer fling, but I have a wife. And commitments. So best you just toddle back to town, start working your wiles on one of those foolish boys, and everything will work out perfectly well for you." He wheeled his horse around, blew her a kiss, and cantered off, leaving her alone.

Alone.

She was alone.

She stood there a long time, long enough for her tears to dry. But the anger was still there. It kept her warm. She cuddled it, stoking it with his lies, his deceptions, his false talk of love on those wild, lovely nights. She ignored the rippling pain underlying it.

The anger would have to keep her going, because otherwise, nothing would.

He fingers, which had twined together with nervousness before, now clenched into small fists.

Time to start making plans. She drew in a deep breath and began walking back to the village.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowena goes to the village witch for a curse...what she comes away with changes her life forever.

She counted her farthings carefully, tipping the copper coins from one hand to the other. She had no idea what Maeve would charge, so she looked down at the small handful and sighed. Then, gathering her courage, she knocked at Maeve's door, softly at first, then more firmly.

The door opened. Maeve was even shorter than she was, but the resemblance ended there. Maeve was plump and soft and middle-aged; her hair was soft brown streaked with gray, covered with a kerchief. Bright, interested brown eyes peered at her.

"Ah. 'Tis the tanner's daughter. Well, come in, do," she said, stepping back and waving a welcoming hand. Rowena stepped in. "Now. Tell me what ye're lookin' for, lass. A love spell? Something to stop your courses?" Maeve stopped, peered at her intently, then added, "Ah, well, _that's_ too late, innit?" Rowena flushed and looked down. "Ye're too far gone for any simples to get rid of it, lass, so if that's what ye're lookin' for, I canna help," Maeve murmured sympathetically.

Rowena tossed her head back, looked down her slender nose at the village witch. "Aye, I thought it might be. What I _am_ lookin' for is - " She drew a deep breath, fanned the anger inside her. "I want a hex," she blurted.

Shrewd eyes gazed at her thoughtfully. "Well, now. A hex, is it? Just a bad luck charm, or something stronger?"

"Stronger!" she said in a fierce voice.

"A strong hex costs money, lass."

She held out her hand, farthings sitting on the palm, damp from her sweat. Maeve glanced down at them and snorted. "Ach, no, girl. That's not enough. That will get you a mild charm, no more." Rowena wrapped her hand around the coins, shoulders slumping. Maeve squinted at her, then her eyes widened a bit. She reached out, grasped Rowena's chin in her hand, turned her head this way and that, eyeing her intently. "Well, now..." she murmured. "Well, now...Perhaps we can make a deal. I'm in need of an apprentice. And you, lass, you have a gift."

Rowena's eyes darted to meet hers. Her eyebrows twitched into a puzzled frown. "Gift...?"

"Och, it's the power you have. Many a witch would kill for that in-born power." She dropped her hand. "I can train you. You help me, I teach you, and..." She trailed off, then grinned. "And you get your hex, eh? What say you?"

Rowena nibbled on her lips, mind racing. With the bairn, she was already on borrowed time; Father would either make her marry some older man in the village or toss her out. Well, she certainly wasn't going to do the first! No more men for her! She was going to have to depend on herself, that was obvious. And what Maeve said...intrigued her.

Finally, she nodded one, short and sharp, and grinned back. "Och, aye, that sounds like a _fine_ thing!"

* * *

 

When the bairn growing in her belly became too big to disguise with gathered skirts, and the discovery was made, her father thundered and roared, storming around their cottage. Then, as she had expected, came the ultimatum. Wed Collum Drummond, the widowed blacksmith, or get out. Her mother just wept, like the useless milksop she was. No backbone, that one, allowing her husband to order her about like that! This was what had happened to her six older sisters - ordered to marry (though no bairns beforehand for them!).

She got out.

She moved in with Maeve. She studied, herbs, potions, lore. She grew bigger every day, the bairn causing her stomach to protrude like a massive growth on her slender frame.

The boys of the village followed her with their eyes, assuming since she had done it once, when the baby was out she'd do it again. The lasses of the village followed her with their whispers and laughter. The elders watched her, suspecting her because of her association with Maeve.

She ignored them all. The knowledge, the power, everything she was gaining from Maeve and the few other local practioners of witchcraft - it was thrilling. And she would never have to depend on anyone's "love". She'd be her own woman, strong and fierce and free.

Though there was this baby coming. Despite herself, she felt fondness growing.

When the baby came, in the depths of winter, Maeve guided her, helped her, sponged off her forehead, gave her a rag to bite down on when the pains became too much. After hours of pain, and screaming, and blood, the baby came out, squalling loudly, covered with blood, his head strangely pointed from the birth. Maeve chuckled. "Aye, a strong boy he is," she murmured, wiping the blood and muck from him and wrapping him in a small, warm blanket. She laid him on Rowena's stomach. Rowena looked wearily down her body at him, and was conflicted. She was responding automatically to his calls, her arms reaching to cuddle him close.

But. "Him". A boy. Who would grow into a man. She had hoped for a daughter. Her lips twisted. "Call him Fergus Roderick McLeod," she sneered. Fergus for her father. Roderick for his. So she would never forget.

Still, she held him close, nuzzled him, and fell into exhausted sleep.

The boy grew quickly. She nursed him as she studied, carried him in a sling when she went searching for wild herbs and berries. Before she knew it, he was toddling around Maeve's cottage. As he got bigger, she would tell him what she was doing as she ground herbs together, steeped berries for potions, recited spells. When he was three, she and Maeve pressed him into service, grinding the herbs, fetching and carrying.

She loved him, but always, always remembered that he would grow to be a man.

As he grew even more, stretching out from the chubby roundness of toddlers and his face beginning to slender down, she found herself unconsciously snapping at him more and more. She didn't know what it was, but something about him set her teeth on edge sometimes.

One day, when she glanced up from her current hex making, to see him standing outlined in sunlight, she realized what the problem was. Black hair. Vivid blue eyes. Face already developing _those_ cheekbones. A wave of anger, hatred swept over her.

He looked exactly like his father.

After that, she could never be with him without seeing Roderick. Without feeling that gut punch of betrayal. Without knowing that, no matter what she did, how proficient she became, how powerful, she had her own personal ghost following her around.

She took to withdrawing from him. Maeve noticed, and chided her for it. She snapped at Maeve in response, feeling ashamed, but unable to stop it.

The boy noticed, of course, and tried desperately to figure out how to make her love him more, stop withdrawing. He would follow her around. Whine. Pick at her sleeves to get her attention - All of which made matters worse. She would shout at him. When that didn't work, she would slap him. Maeve stepped in and became little Fergus's protector.

Part of Rowena was glad, the part that felt sad and guilty about her response to her very own son. It only angered the other part.

One day, when the boy was six, Maeve set them both down in the snug chairs by the fireplace, leaned forward, and said, "Time for a wee chat. Ro, my lass, I canna teach y'any more. Ye've learned everything I know." She looked down at her lap, fingers picking at the fabric. "It's been good. Ye're a good student. Ye're smart, willing to work hard, and have the power. I think ye're at a crossroads here. Y'can stop learning and become my full partner." She looked around at the cottage, smiling faintly. "Ye'll have everything I own when I pass, as you are like a daughter to me. Y'could be happy, I think."

Rowena listened carefully, eyes focused on her mentor.

Maeve sighed, smoothed out her skirt, and looked up at her. "But ye're ambitious, lass. Stayin' here...well. I'm not sure y'could. Ye'd go far, with other teachers. Say the word, and we'll look for those better teachers for you."

Rowena's eyes lit up with an inner hunger. She had been thinking, over the past few months, that she felt tied down, stifled, that surely there was more to witchcraft than this. It had made her feel guilty, to know she wanted more, that Maeve was not enough. But now she was offering her exactly what she wanted.

She wasted no time in protestations; she could tell that Maeve knew how she felt. It was freeing to realize that, to know her mentor was willing to encourage her to fly even higher. Her voice was eager as she said, "Och, aye! That would be...would be wonderful!"

Maeve nodded once, then stood up with an air of decision. "Well, then! Let's to it, eh?"

A movement by the door caught her eye. It was the boy. She bit her lips, realizing she hadn't thought of him once during their conversation. She frowned at him with narrowed eyes. What in God's name was she to do with him?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeve and Rowena travel to Edinburgh, to hand off Rowena's training to the Scottish Coven.

Edinburgh was shocking to the both of them. It was crowded. There were more people than she had ever seen in her entire life, thousands, she was sure. Everything was huddled inside the protective walls, and so the buildings inside had been built upward. Rowena counted the floors on one, and realized, stunned, that there were - could it be possible?! - eleven floors. It wasn't the tallest she could see, either. Looming over everything was the castle on the hill.

Maeve grasped Rowena's elbow. "We need to find mistress Gowdie." She glanced around, saw an urchin nearby, gestured to him. After a quick negotiation, he promised to lead them to the proper place for a halfpenny. Maeve grabbed Fergus's hand, and they trooped off down Canongate, peering and gaping at everything. Maeve spent the walk telling Rowena of the witchcraft trial five years prior, and how Mistress Gowdie had somehow - even though she had confessed to her witchery in great detail - managed to emerge from the trials a free woman. Maeve suspected that she had used her power, or simply was able to blackmail the judges.

The boy led them to a shorter building - only seven stories - and up the stairs attached in a structure of their own, to the third floor, and then left them there. Maeve looked at Rowena, shrugged, and lifted the knocker.

After that, everything was a whirlwind. Rowena distinctly remembered feeling embarrassed for Maeve after Mistress Gowdie looked her up and down with a small sniff. And angry. But, at the same time, she was overwhelmed by the gleaming, smooth furnishings, the glittering chandeliers, the gilding on the huge mirrors lining the hallways, the silk dress worn by their hostess, the servants.

Someday. Yes, someday she would live like this.

Maeve had written a letter prior to their leaving the village, so Mistress Gowdie knew what they were here for. She gripped Rowena's chin, eyeing her in a way similar to how Maeve had judged her the first time they met, then nodded with satisfaction and said, quietly, "Call me Isobel, child. We will be working closely together." Then servants showed them to a room, Rowena was dressed by a maid in a gown similar to their mistress's, and then led out to a grand dining room. She looked back at Maeve and little Fergus peering out the door behind her, frightened and overwhelmed, but determined not to show it.

In the dining room, she was faced with an array of eating utensils she had never seen. She darted quick glances at her fellow diners to see what to do. Talk rippled amongst the five other guests: the state of the realm, the churches, witchcraft, philosophy. She tried to understand what was being said, but names and familiar jokes went over her head. She stayed quiet, absorbing it all. Mistress Gowdie flirted with the young man seated next to her; she had introduced him as Sir Robert Gordon. Rowena was fascinated; her hostess must be at least twice as old, but from the way he looked at her, they were...very close.

And then the harrowing dinner was over, most of the guests had left, and she could relax a bit, but now she was left with Mistress Gowdie and Sir Robert. Sir Robert strolled over to her, loomed over her with deep brown eyes examining her, then performed the same hand-to-chin ritual that she was becoming familiar with. Then he smiled, a slow smile, and let his hand drop, though his fingers lingered on her skin as they left, leaving her face tingling.

"You are very strong, Mistress McLeod. It will be my pleasure teaching you all I know," he murmured.

They settled in and began to quiz her on her knowledge. She answered their questions quickly and thoroughly. Isobel looked at Sir Robert and raised her brows. "Well! 'Twould seem that our plump village witch is better than she seems at first glance. She has trained you well, girl. But...if you are to stay with us, your studies will take you very far afield from the gentle basics she taught." She peered at Rowena with interest. "Are you ready to go further than you ever thought, be taught by the leaders of the Scottish Coven?"

Rowena sat up straight, head proudly held. "Aye, that I am," she said in a firm voice. Sir Robert smiled at her with disturbing intensity.

"We will make sure to make it...interesting..for you."

Mistress Gowdie flicked an irritated glance his way. "Whether 'tis interesting or not, it will be rigorous. You will have little time for that boy of yours."

Rowena shrugged. "He'll live. I won't let him interfere."

"Ah," Mistress Gowdie said. "An excellent attitude, girl. Make sure you keep it."

And then she was back in the guest room, telling Maeve everything of how it went. Maeve listened, nodded, frowned at her description of Sir Robert, but let it slide. When she was done, Maeve hugged her.

"So. My daughter in witchcraft has a new life ahead of her. I am pleased. And proud of ye, lass. Mark my words, ye'll go far. But don't let their fancy ways and fancy clothes be blinding you." She dashed the back of a hand across her face to wipe off the tears, and smiled. "So, 'twill be you and the lad, living - where? Here? Somewhere else?"

"Here, I think." She twisted her hand in the embroidered coverlet on the bed, looked down at it. "Maeve," she started, then stopped. She drew in a breath, and went on, "Maeve, I will miss you. You - y'took me in. Y'taught me." Her eyes flashed suddenly, and she grinned tightly at her. "Aye, more than they had expected! They thought you a simple village witch, but I showed them, by passing on what y'taught me! They have more respect for ye now! And well they should!" She hugged Maeve fiercely.

Maeve beamed at her, and smoothed her skirt. "Well. Fancy city folk. They don't think people away from the cities can be learnin' things. Show them the kind of stuff that we're made of, do, now. And don't be forgettin' me."

"I won't," Rowena murmured, holding her hand.

"And how'll you do all this with young Fergus here?" Maeve added, worried.

Rowena waved a hand. "Och! Mistress Gowdie has servants, who will help, no doubt."

Maeve frowned, peered at the boy, who was curled up asleep in a chair, but said nothing.

The next morning, a servant led Maeve away, back to the stage stop, and Rowena's new life as a student of the Scottish Coven began.

**A/N: Yes, really, Edinburgh in the late 1600s had buildings as tall as 14 floors, because rather than building out, beyond the walls, they built up. I was surprised! And Isobel Gowdie was a real person, who was tried as a witch. There are records of the trial in 1662, but no records as to the outcome, so I just...borrowed her and Robert Gordon, who was also rumored to be a witch, and a friend of Gowdie's.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowena is initiated as a full member of the Scottish Coven. But at what price?

She watched the fancy city witches and their guests at the dinners, and learned. She flirted with Sir Robert, seeing the way Isobel watched them without seeming to, and filed it away as yet another reason to never depend on a man. She reveled in the soft, silken feel of the clothes that Isobel had seamstresses make for her, and determined that she'd never go back to homespun. She saw the weary workers slogging their way up the outer stairway to the higher floors at the end of a day, and thanked her lucky stars as the group she was in would sweep past, knowing that she would never be that tired, that drab.

She learned to summon the wind. The first time, Sir Robert had slid his arms around her slender waist to help guide her hands in the proper gestures, and she had leaned back against him, liking the firm feel of his body. Isobel admonished her sharply afterwards about her sloppy movements and lack of control. Rowena knew it wasn't those things that had prompted the dressing down. But there was no questioning of her strength, her inborn ability, from either of them.

Now and then, she saw Fergus peering around doorways at her with wide eyes. Some nights, when she actually acknowledged his existence, he surprised her with his insights into the guests. He would drop a simple, childish observation into her night routine, and she would stop, glance at him in the mirror, and file it away.

One night, he sat behind her on the delicate guest chair, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, and he said, "Mama. Sir Robert scares me." She laughed scornfully, but narrowed her eyes in thought and also stuck that one into her head. She also wondered how he had come to that conclusion when he had never interacted with the man. Maybe during one of the peering episodes?

He was an anchor, weighing her down, even with the servants caring for him. And even after these years, and the way her life had changed, his hair, his eyes, his smile would bring _him_ back to her memory, and her rage and betrayal flared up anew.

Her full initiation into the coven was approaching. It was to be held in the woods, on

Samhain, so it would be chilly. Isabella had given her another cloak, warmer. Robert sent a note to bring Fergus. Rowena frowned at that: it was _her_ night, _her_ initiation. Why bring the boy? She shrugged, and when the evening came, dragged Fergus downstairs and thrust him into the second-best carriage before her, then sat looking at him with folded lips and arms.

"Sir Robert wants you there. I don't know why. Keep your mouth closed and behave!"

Fergus nodded with wide, nervous eyes, and huddled down against the seat.

When they got to the sacred grove and got out, the air was chill and damp with sea mist. The moon was well up in the sky, half-full and waning, but even so it provided plenty of light, as did the torches the servants were carrying and the bonfire they walked toward. Normally being so blatant would bring the soldiers down, and the witches would be hauled away to be questioned, imprisoned, burned. But Sir Robert had friends. They wouldn't be disturbed.

Rowena moved forward to the front of the small crowd, Fergus following, pulled by her hand, and joined Isobel and Sir Robert. His eyes flicked over her, and he asked sharply, "The boy? Where is he?" She jerked him forward, still irritated that she had to bring him.

Sir Robert smiled slowly, and drew a thumb down the boy's cheek. Fergus flinched back, huddled under his cloak, and stared at the man with huge eyes. Rowena's eyebrows twitched together in a small frown; even with her growing distance from the boy, the interaction sent a small pinprick of warning through her.

She tossed it off and looked around at the gathering. Someone thrust a cup into her hand, filled it, and the witches raised their cups in toast. "To our Dark Lord!" Sir Robert called, and "To our Dark Lord!" they all echoed, and drank deep.

The herbs steeped in wine began their work: the power sizzled within her, grew, flared down her arms and legs. She laughed gleefully at the feeling. She was aware of flashes of the initiation ceremony: the altar, lit by tall black candles; Isobel raising an athame, slicing into her palm; the blade being passed around; holding the goblet, filled with blood and wine, up to her lips; drinking it. A sudden awareness of all the witches swept through her, along with the touch of their various powers.

There was Isobel, all dark and mysterious green groves, sunlight piercing through the leaves of the trees; soft, lush banks of moss; the feeling of new growth, the bloom of flowers, the piercing taste of ripe fruit, the fall of old leaves, the icy cold starkness of winter branches.

There was Lisette, a delicate caress of cool, clear water rushing past; a sense of dark depths; the crash of wild, salty ocean waves; the slow, relentless movement of water beneath ice; the inexorable power of a tiny stream's trickle across a rock, wearing at it, smoothing it down, eventually splitting it.

Looming in the back, dark and powerful, with flashes of all the elements and more, was the leader of the coven, Sir Robert. The grim, dark, fiery touch of lava moving beneath the ground; hurricane-strength wind sweeping across the heath, tumbling houses, trees, people; flame rampaging through the woods, eating everything in its way with a crackling roar; dark water flooding silently, stealthily into nooks and crannies, filling every available space, rising up.

They were her, she was them. She threw back her head, laughed again, her long red curls tangling in the rising breeze. This - _this_ was what she was meant to be!

Hands caressed her. Lips brushed against hers. Limbs tangling in abandon. She returned the caresses, the kisses, not knowing or caring who, just reveling in the power spiraling through her, echoing back from her companions through all her senses. A flash of Sir Robert holding her hands down above her head as he moved inside her. A vignette of Isobel thrusting her tongue down her throat, murmuring and twisting her hands in her hair.

And then she was standing before the altar, athame in her hands, Isobel behind and to her right, Sir Robert on her left. Fergus was spread before her on the altar, tied down, pale with fear and confusion. His cloak was gone, his tunic ripped wide open across his chest. "And now, my lovely, powerful girl, to seal it all...the Sacrifice of The Innocent," Sir Robert murmured into her ear.

Her head abruptly cleared. She was icy cold from the chill and the mist and the wind. The bonfire had sunk down into glowing embers. The remainder of the coven watched from the other side of the altar, shadowy shapes in the dimness except for reflections making their eyes glitter.

There was her son.

And there she was, with a stone knife, standing above him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rowena gambles big and wins, but may have made an enemy in the process.

"We're waiting, Rowena." Sir Robert's smooth voice had a hint of hardness lurked behind it. Still, she stood frozen. "We need the blood of an innocent. Do it now."

She raised the athame high, and brought it down swiftly. It pierced through the boy's arm, blood pooling out to stain the altar. He screamed, high and shrill. She watched the blood slip across the stone for a moment. Then, with a small, tight smile, she pulled the athame out of his arm, raised it again, and cut through the rope binding his nearest arm. The witches gathered started murmuring angrily. She walked down the altar, sliced the rope binding his leg, then circled the altar and reversed the process. When she was done, she hissed, "Off y'go now, boy. Back to the carriage." Fergus flinched from her, grabbed his wounded arm, slid off the altar, and ran.

She stood across the altar from Sir Robert, and folded her arms, bloody athame dripping down her naked body.

He stared at her through narrowed eyes. Isobel stood next to him, frowning darkly. The other witches behind her quieted, as they waited with excitement for the coven leaders to make their move.

"Very amusing," Sir Robert murmured with a grim expression on his face.

Rowena tossed her head. She presented a brave front, but inside she was shaking and breathless. "Aye, was it not?"

"You do realize that without the blood of an innocent, your initiation is incomplete."

Triumph shot through her. He had originally said "sacrifice". But his second warning, and this reprimand...well. She smiled at him as if nothing untoward had happened, and pointed the blade at the altar. "There is your innocent blood. Put there by my hand. Deny that if y'will, but 'tis there."

Isobel made a sudden movement, then stilled. Her frown shifted from anger to irritated consideration. She leaned toward Sir Robert, who was by now looking thunderous, and murmured to him. Rowena waited, hands slick with sweat on the blade despite the chill mist surrounding them. She watched as Sir Robert's hands clenched into fists then spasmed open while he listened to whatever Isobel was saying. He kept his angry eyes fixed on Rowena.

He flung up a sudden hand to stop Isobel's talk. She bit her lip, then dipped her head and stepped back. He stalked to the altar facing Rowena, his lips thin and tight.

"Very swift thinking, girl. As my coven second has said to me..." He paused, drew in a breath, his face taut, eyes glittering. Then he ground out, "The blood is enough." He shot out his hand, grabbed her wrist, dragged her halfway across the altar. "But if you ever. _Ever_. Disobey me again. The blood on that altar will be yours. Do you understand?"

The cold stone dug into her naked flesh; she would have scrapes and bruises tomorrow. The look in his eyes terrified her. But, at the same time, the realization sang through her: he had commanded, she had disobeyed, but still...still...she was officially part of the coven now. She also knew she might have made an enemy. And for what? For that pulling boy. She looked into his eyes, nodded, tried to appear meek, subdued. It seemed to work. He released her wrist, stepped back.

Sir Robert lifted his hands above his head, clapped them sharply. "Attend, all! Rowena MacLeod is now one of us, bound by blood and flesh and by the Dark Lord. And now, it is time to disperse." With that, he dropped his hands and strode off. Isobel darted one last glance at Rowena, still frowning, and followed.

The remaining witches started collecting their clothing, moving off. Many of them gave her sidelong glances as they passed. She stood as tall and straight as she could, pretending to ignore their suspicions, their distrust. She had fulfilled the letter of the law for the initiation, but they all knew she had skirted the real meaning of it. So be it. She knew she was stronger than any of them in raw power. With continued training, she would be the best of the lot. She smiled tightly, watching them leave, then scooped up her own clothes and walked to the last carriage.

When she got there, she stopped, dressed, and thought. Her son was in the carriage. She had almost - _almost_! - lost her chance over some odd twitch of sentimentality, some fragment of the mother-son bond holding her back. She couldn't afford that, not anymore.

She climbed in, sat back, and looked at him in the dimness. He looked back at her, his face tear-streaked. He shook with sobs, and hiccuped pathetically. He huddled in the corner, holding his wounded arm tightly with his other hand.

"Stop that!" she snapped. "Be a man! Are y'dead, then? No. You could be lyin' cold and bloodless on that altar, save for my quick thinkin'." He flinched. "Tch!" She leaned forward. He flinched away. She seized his arm. "Let me look at that. 'Twould be no good for it to fester; if that were to happen, I might as well have stabbed y'through the heart." Big, blue, tear-filled eyes looked up at her with fear, and she bit her lip. "Ach. Fergus. Let me look." Her voice was softer. Slowly, very slowly, he relaxed, let her pull the hand away from his blood-soaked arm. She peeled back the slit cloth, looked at the wound as best she could in the dim light. "Well, then. Seems 'tis a clean enough cut. I'll sew it up when we get back home."

He choked back yet another sob. "Home." His voice was small, barely audible. "I want Maeve!" he wailed suddenly, pushing his head into her shoulder.

"Aye, no doubt," she muttered sourly, as she ruffled his hair, damp from the mist. She stared out the small carriage window as it entered the city.


End file.
